


OtherWhen: Game of Thrones

by Writegirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Olenna, Cyvasse Master Doran, Especially When She Dies, Even When She Dies, F/M, Gen, New Fandoms Are Hard, Olenna Always Wins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Rating May Change, Series Spoilers, Tags Are Hard, Warnings May Change, What-If, you win or you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writegirl/pseuds/Writegirl
Summary: Every decision has consequences, whether large or small.A collection of Game of Thrones drabbles from the books and series.Chapter 8:Cersei straightened her spine. “We thank you for bringing this to Our attention.”





	1. In Which Robb Gets a Raven A Little Sooner

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of small stories where one thing, either big or small, is altered and how that change affects everything after.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb gets a raven from Riverrun letting him know Edmure is planning to hold the Red Fork against Tywin's march to Casterly Rock.
> 
> He is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This started at a GoT fic that was swiftly turning into about six different fics, so I've broken them into little drabbles focused on changing one thing, and how that change affects the story as a whole. The plan is for them to be single chapters each dealing with a different scenario from the show or books

          “Make sure the scorpions have a clear line of sight to the eastern shore,” Edmure Tully said to Lord Lolliston as he concluded his war council. “If we’re lucky, we can catch Tywin himself and be rid of him once and for all.”  


          His bannermen bowed and went to complete his orders, leaving him alone in his command tent. It was shaping up to be a good day. The raven from the Citadel meant autumn had arrived, and he could feel it in the briskness of the air. A cold that was missing ever since Robb Stark took his Northmen into the West to raid Tywin Lannister’s lands. Edmure glanced down at the map of the Red Fork. Every ford was held by a garrison of two thousand men hiding in the thick trees and underbrush on the western bank. Tywin would march himself into the teeth of the Riverland army and be decimated.  


          _Hold Riverrun,_ Edmure scoffed to himself as he glanced at the direwolves that were spread across the West. Robb Stark may have been a king, but he was still an arrogant boy to think the heir to Riverrun would hide behind his castle’s walls and not strike back at the Lannisters for what they’d done to his homeland. Continued to do, if the scattered reports were any indication.  


          Quick footfalls sounded outside his tent, and a thin boy pushed his way inside. “Riders, my Lord! Flying a crowned wolf!” his squire announced as he came to a skidding halt inside the tent.  


          _So, the boy decides to return to watch my victory!_ Edmure smiled. His scouts reported the Lannister host was perhaps three days away, marching hard from Harrenhall. _Perhaps he grew tired of frightening old men and babes at the breast._ After smashing the newly raised levies at Oxcross Stark’s army found no further resistance in the Westerlands, only gold and resources. Resources that were a start to the reparations the Riverlands would demand after the war was over. With their crops burned and smallfolk scattered, his people would be hard-pressed once the cold truly set in. He would see Lannister gold pay for the grain and meat to sustain them through the winter.  


          The King in the North marched into his tent as if it were his own, barely stopping to acknowledge his uncle as he passed, his guard and a slender man following. King Robb went straight to the maps, blue eyes taking in the battle plans and positions.  


          “My King,” Edmure said jovially. “I am surprised to see you here. My reports had you near Ashmark.” That was less than a fortnight ago. The king must have ridden hard to reach him at such speed.  


          “The Westerlands are secure enough, for now,” the boy said, eyes still on the map, one hand settled on a spot halfway between the carved pieces representing the Lannister forces and the silver fish of the Riverlands.  


          “The bulk of the Lannister army is moving at speed from Harrenhall,” Edmure reported, ignoring how the boy neglected to use his title. Robb Stark was young yet, he would learn. “I’ve set up choke points on the major fords of the Red Fork. Archers and scorpions will handle the opposite bank, light foot any who manage to cross.”  


          Robb turned to the slender man. Lord Something-Or-Other, from the far North. “We need paper and ink,” he said quietly. The Lord nodded and went to the small writing clutch Edmure kept for his private missives.  


          “Ser-”  


          “Lord Tully,” Robb’s voice rose, though his eyes never left the map. “You will send for your fastest riders and tell them to make for the positions along the river. You will write orders for your commanders to move immediately to Riverrun and protect the castle on order of the King.”  


          Edmure could feel his face flaming in anger. _Again, the boy does it again! “Your Grace-”_  


          “I left you in Riverrun, Lord Edmure,” Stark said slowly, voice cold. “Yet we are not in Riverrun.”  


          Edmure felt his hands clench. “You told me to defend Riverrun,” he said, voice clipped. “The Red Fork runs directly to my family’s seat.”  


          “Which is why your men should be at Riverrun, not fortifying the fords against attack.”  


          Edmure worked his jaw as he stared down his nephew. He was a knight, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, being told to run home with his tail between his legs and wait out the war by a boy barely emerged from his mother’s skirts.  


          Stark watched him, and Edmure could see hints of gray beneath the Tully blue, turning the color to something closer to steel. “You have something to say, Lord Edmure?” the King asked flatly.  


          “No, your Grace,” he bit out, though there was much he wished to say to his sister’s son. _You are vain,_ he wanted to say. _You would win this war and shower yourself in glory while consigning me and my men to the margins of history. House Tully will be remembered only for being saved by a boy barely past his twentieth nameday._  


          He said none of this.  


          Robb’s eyes went to his guards. “Leave us.” It was spoken softly but was no less a command. “Hollis. Find fresh horses for the journey back to Oxcross.” The men filed out, none of them sparing him a glance.  


          _Northern savages._ “Your Grace-”  


          “This is not the first time you’ve expressed an aversion to my plans,” Robb said as he removed his crown, setting it on the table with a sharp click. He threw off his thick traveling cloak and slung it over the back of a chair. Looking at him now, he looked tired, mud splattering his boots to the knee.  


          Edmure straightened. “It is not aversion, Your Grace,” he corrected.  


          Stark gave out a small chuckle. “Distaste, then. Would you mind answering why, my Lord?”  


          He almost said nothing. Almost lied and agreed to retreat to Riverrun just to get to the King to return to the Westerlands and allow his men to implement his plan. They could not allow Tywin Lannister’s host to cross Tully lands unchallenged, would not let the man run back to his golden halls without bleeding for what he’d done to the Riverlands.  


          "May I speak freely, Your Grace," he asked. 

          "I would have all my men speak freely, Lord Tully." 

          “Once again my men are relegated to cowardly tactics,” he said the words in a rush. “We are to only harry an army that has laid waste to our homeland, allow them to pass back into the West and secure Tywin Lannister’s seat.” His voice rose as he spoke, but Edmure didn’t care. He would be heard. “If my force holds the fords we can keep Tywin here. We’ve beaten his army at every turn and he is on the run.” Did the boy not understand? No one had ever knocked the Lion of Casterly Rock on his heels the way Robb Stark had. “The Riverlands will drown the Lannisters.”  


          For his part Stark said nothing as he spoke, only watched him with those Tully blue eyes. _He could be my son with his coloring,_ Edmure thought.  


          “That is a good plan, Lord Tully,” he said with a small nod. “Engage the enemy where he is, and refuse him supplies or reinforcements.”  


          “Exactly!” Edmure grinned. “We’ve cut his supply lines, and the lands he is foraging have already been pillaged. His men will starve on the march in the Riverlands and be easily defeated.”  


          “Hmm.” Robb gestured to the map. “Tell me, my Lord, what do you see?”  


          Edmure looked down, confused. “A map, Your Grace.”  


          The map was the most detailed that could be found of the Riverlands, with many hasty additions as the war continued and better surveys came in. The markers showed the positions of his men along the Red Fork and the position of the Lannister army. He sneered at the three dogs that represented Clegane. If he was lucky, the Mountain would try to push through at Stone Mill and his men would riddle the monster with arrows, weaken him enough for Edmure to strike the killing blow.  


          “I see I have been lax, Lord Edmure,” Robb told him. “I gave an order, expecting it to be followed by those under my command only to return to the exact opposite of my words.”  


          Edmure felt a presence behind him, followed by a soft shuff of sound as Grey Wind padded into the tent. He fought the urge to reach for his dagger. He had seen what the animal could do, and though the boy’s control of his pet was admirable, it was still a direwolf.  


          Robb buried his hand in the thick fur at its nape when it came to sit at his side. “It is my fault, I suppose,” the boy said. “For not sharing my every thought with my liege lords.”  


          “My King-”  


          “Did you ever think to ask yourself why we remained in the west so long after Oxcross?” The patience was leaving his voice. “You knew I did not have enough men to threaten Lannisport or Casterly Rock.”  


          Edmure frowned. Lannisport and the Rock would stand a siege only because they were well supplied, but not all the Westerland’s holdings were so well situated. “Why ... there were other castles ... gold, cattle...” The north would benefit mightily from the riches of the Westerlands, especially with winter coming.  


          “You think we stayed for plunder?” The patience was gone, replaced by cold anger and disbelief. “That I would risk the lives of my men for castles we couldn’t hold once the war ends? Uncle, I want Lord Tywin to come west.” He leaned against the table. “I want Tywin Lannister to press through the fords. I want his army to feel safe and for him to spread his forces as thin as possible to cross faster. Lines can be broken. A hard push, luck, miscommunication… but a river,” he ran a finger along the Red Fork. “There is no breaking a river, Lord Edmure.  


          As he spoke Robb moved several pieces. The Lannister host moved from a collection of ten lions to a string of single markers on the other side of the Red Fork. The two carved wolves denoting the two thousand Northmen he kept back moved from their position in the Whispering Wood and lined up on the eastern bank of the river before switching the Tully forces to the east bank as well.  


          “My plan, Lord Tully, is to draw Tywin out from Harrenhall. To let him move his army across the Red Fork, a thousand leagues from King’s Landing and his bastard grandson. Once he crosses the river and moves through the passes we close it behind him and keep him in the west where he can help no one. Stannis plans to attack the capital, he has no choice if he means to win the Iron Throne. Without support, the capital will fall. Your placing men along the fords put those plans in jeopardy.”  


          Edmure gapped. “Robb… my King…”  


          Robb smiled again, but it was a hard, small thing. “I understand I am young, Lord Edmure. This is my first campaign, and you wish to strike down those who dared attack your home.” Robb’s fist clenched, and Edmure thought of the reports of Ironborn reaving the North. “What I cannot understand is why you would willfully defy the orders of the king you knelt to the moment my back is turned. The king you swore to obey.”  


          A low growl erupted from Grey Wind, and Edmure swallowed. “Your Grace…”  


          “Dismantle your defenses and return to Riverrun, Lord Tully.” Robb Stark’s gaze was piercing, his voice cold as a winter storm. “Make it look sloppy as if you are retreating before a superior foe and unsure of success. Make Tywin Lannister believe he will have nothing but a token resistance in his travel.”  


          “It…” he cleared his throat. “It will be done, Your Grace.”  


          “You are my kin, my mother’s brother, but I cannot… I will not, have dissension in my ranks.” He came around the table and stood until he was only a few inches away. “Disobey an order again, Lord Tully, and being my kin will not save you. I will treat you as any traitor would be in the North.”  


          Edmure bowed. “My King.”  


          “Start writing letters, Lord Edmure,” the king commanded. “I mean to leave camp in an hour, and I expect your men to be on their way before then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Recognizable dialogue has been lifted from the show and/or the books. Hope you enjoyed ^_^
> 
> If there is one character who is playing checkers while everyone else is playing chess, it is Edmure Tully. In the books, his holding of the Red Fork ultimately results in the Lannister-Tyrell alliance that crushes Stannis at King's Landing. Edmure sees only getting his licks in, but the three days of fighting allows Tyrell riders to reach Tywin with news of Renly's death and the potential alliance between the throne and the Tyrells. One dumb move by a dumb lord is what costs Robb the war in the end. Though in Edmure's defense, the whole situation could have been handled by Robb telling his uncle what he planned. -_-


	2. In Which Ned Stark is a Better Player than Anyone Suspects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the game of thrones you win, or you die.
> 
> Ned has no intention of dying.

          Ned Stark watched Cersei as she calmly walked out of the garden and a phalanx of Lannister guards closed around her. He envied her even gait, the speed at which she moved and wondered if any of her current guards were with her brother when he was ambushed. His own leg ached fiercely, but he refused to take milk of the poppy. He needed his mind sharp, not muddled by the Grand Maester’s potions. Her last words to him hung in the warm summer air, a taunt and a challenge.  


_In the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground._  


         She said the words so confidently, as if he were somehow unaware of just how deadly politics in the realm ran. His father, brother, and sister were all killed by it. It gave him a wife he never hoped for and lost him a woman he could have loved. The Starks learned much about playing the game in the years of Robert’s Rebellion, and even more after as houses fought each other for prestige and position atop the corpse of the Targaryen dynasty.  


_Never again,_ he swore to himself as he carried the bones of his family home, a small, fragile bundle in his arms.  


         It was a promise already broken. Lady died at his hands because of a queen’s vanity and spite. Nymeria was lost, and both his daughters felt their lack keenly. The bones of five of his household guard were being shipped back as he sat, slaughtered in the streets of King’s Landing. So far no Stark blood was spilled except for his own, and he would see that it stayed that way even if it meant doing things he found distasteful. Those in the North may not enjoy the game as much as Southrons, but that did not mean they didn’t know how to play.  


         Cersei expected him to be noble. To remember how Robert dealt with children who threatened his reign and give her time to flee to her father, or perhaps across the Narrows. He might have if he hadn’t watched the queen since receiving Lysa’s letter in Winterfell all those months ago. Cersei was her father’s daughter, with all of Tywin’s arrogance and none of his careful nature. The woman would never back down, would see his words as a challenge to be overcome. He had no doubt that she would kill her enemies just as readily as he would, the only difference would be her weapons.  


_Poison,_ he thought with a grimace as he stood, his leg threatening to buckle beneath him until he steadied himself with his cane. Jon Arryn must have learned the truth of her children, and poison took him before he could alert his king. Cat was sure Bran had seen or heard something, and that was the reason he was pushed from the Tower. Knowing what he did now of Cersei and her brother he could imagine what Bran saw that would be worth his life to them. He didn’t doubt Cersei was even now thinking of a way to silence him. She may not have known him well, but she knew Eddard Stark would never stand by and allow her bastards to inherit the throne, no matter the elevation of his house.  


         He nodded to his men as they formed a barrier around him, a protection he was swiftly growing to loathe. It spoke of the lawlessness of Robert’s house, that members of the nobility felt the need to protect themselves with steel beneath his roof. Each looked as grim as he felt as he entered the shade of the Keep. Cersei was already plotting, he knew. Her thin fingers working to cement the Lannister stranglehold on the kingdom. She would expect him to be honorable, to not plot in turn, because what Stark would?  


         Cersei Lannister never imagined he would send Robert word before informing her.  


_In the game of thrones, you win or you die._ Enough Stark blood was spilled in the South. Ned fought not to care whose blood would be spilled in turn, but he would do everything in his power to make sure none of it belonged to his family.  


          As Ned walked back to the throne room to deal with the afternoon petitioners he half-turned in the direction of the King’s Road. He sent Roarke out well before light, directing one of his people to see the warrior through the labyrinth of servants’ corridors to avoid detection. Robert was hunting in the King’s Wood, and the man was said to not drift too far into the thick forest in his later years. Roarke should have found him and delivered his message, and the king should be riding back to the Red Keep.  


          He was halfway through the afternoon petitioners when Robert Baratheon burst into the throne room, throwing the doors wide. Ned stood as the petitioners swiftly scurried out of their king’s way. Robert’s gait was faster than he had seen since the Greyjoy rebellion, his face red with rage and the parchment clutched in his fist. Behind him what looked like half the Baratheon house guard streamed, moving the people further back to the walls.  


          “My King,” Ned said, inclining his head, hand clasped around the top of his cane.  


          Robert clambered onto the Throne, surveying the dozens before him. “Selmy!” He bellowed though the man was right beside him. “Take a company of men and find Cersei and the children. Bring them to me _now._ ”  


          Barristan slid a glance Ned’s way before bowing. “As you will, your Grace.” He gestured and two members of the Kingsguard followed him out of the chamber.  


          Eddard stepped forward. “Your Grace-” he said quietly.  


          “You had better be right, Ned,” the king interrupted without turning, eyes boring into the hall.  


          “She confessed not three hours past,” he told his friend.  


          Robert’s hand tightened on the arm of the throne enough that Ned wondered if he’d been cut.  


          Long minutes passed as they waited, only the barest of whispers breaking the heavy silence. Some of the common folk had fled, not wanting to get involved in the dealings of the most powerful houses in Westeros, and a part of Ned wished he could flee with them. The door behind the throne opened and Varys slid into place beside him, silk robes immaculate and smelling faintly of perfume. The Spider looked mildly amused as if this were nothing but a piece of theater meant to entertain and not the opening salvos in a war. Ned nodded to his men when the faint sound of steel hitting steel echoed into the throne room. Robert said nothing, did nothing, just stared straight ahead, face set in a mask. Ned recognized it with a chill. It was the blank, uncaring face of the man who stared down at Rhaenys and Aegon and declared then dragon spawn.  


_I will not let these children die without comment,_ Ned told himself. _Please, Robert, remember who their grandfather is._  


          Finally, the doors to the throne room opened again. Cersei strode in at the front of the Kingsguard and a phalanx of Baratheon soldiers, head back, eyes glittering as she stared at the man on the throne. Her children marched behind her. Joffrey tried to mimic the cold disdain of his mother and failed, his eyes too wide and unable to settle on a single point. while his two siblings looked only afraid.  


          “What is the meaning of this, Robert?” Cersei demanded when she came to a halt at the base of the dais, haughty as always.  


          “I’ve a letter from my Hand,” Robert told her, holding out the crumpled missive. “Is it true?” His voice was quiet.  


          “Robert-"  


          “Is. It. True?”  


          Cersei said nothing.  


          Her silence was too much for the king. He rose, one hand pointing at his wife. “Arrest that traitorous bitch!”  


          The throne room erupted in a cacophony of noise and movement. Mycella screamed as two soldiers grabbed her mother between them.  


          Joffrey was shoved roughly out of the way, falling to the stone floor.“Father!”  


          “Quiet, boy!” Robert roared.  


          “My King, I will see to the children and the queen’s confinement,” Ned said quickly. It was then that Robert turned to him, face a mask of fury, eyes cold and sharp as tempered steel. “Please, Robert,” he pleaded.  


          Robert stood and stalked to the door leading out of the throne room and into the small council chamber.  


          Ned turned to the crowd. “Ser Thorne,” he called, voice ringing through the noise. The captain of Robert’s house guard lifted his head. “See the queen and her children to the Maiden Vault. A guard it to be kept on each of them at all times. None are to enter or leave, not even servants, save by direct order from myself or the King.”  


          Myrcella openly wept as she was escorted from the throne room, Tommen clutching at his sister’s skirts and wailing almost as loud. Joffrey refused to move and began cursing and threatening to dismember any who touched him. With a sigh, Ned gestured, and two of his own guard took control of the boy. Cersei was silent, her eyes boring into his before she turned and stormed out of the chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered how Ned could be so suspicious of everyone and their motives, and at the same time do absolutely nothing about it. It makes no sense for someone who is supposed to be the tactical genius he is (a genius we see echoed in Robb) to give Cersei time to do anything other than pack her children up and run. In fact, so much of what he does makes no sense given how he is supposed to be, so I'll be exploring that more in a few other chapters.


	3. In Which One of the Lovers Gets a Clue (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa traveled halfway around the world to save lives. To stitch flesh and help those she could. She did _not_ come to be a queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major sugary sappiness and sadness here this chapter. This one will be strictly show-verse, since I have a soft spot for Talisa's character. She's really fascinating: a highborn woman who turns her back on her privileged life to go out into the unknown and save strangers. In that world it would be unfathomable. I always assumed she was just traveling in the Westerlands when Robb came through the passes and decided to roll up her sleeves and help where she could.

          “Marry me.” 

          Talisa’s smile slipped away, followed by the langour in her limbs. “What?” 

          It was late, the camp quiet around them. The nights were swiftly growing cooler as the season turned and despite the heat of their earlier lovemaking, gooseflesh spread up her arms. 

          “Marry me,” Robb repeated. His face open and hopeful in the lamplight. “Nothing would make me happier than making you my queen.” 

          She pulled herself away slightly. “You are promised to another.” 

          “Are you refusing?” He half laughed, disbelief clear in his voice. 

          Talisa let her eyes roam over her northern lover. He was so sincere moments ago, his eyes blazing with love. The longer she went without giving him his answer the more that love changed, buried under apprehension. “You are promised to Lord Frey’s daughter,” she reminded him. 

          “I don’t care about Walder Frey’s daughter, I care about you,” the words were hushed, and the truth of them rang in her heart. 

          She shook her head. “And yet you’re here because of her. You are a king, Robb. You cannot go back on your word.” 

          His expression turned mulish. “My mother’s word, you mean.” 

          _Playing with words won’t get you out of this, my love,_ she thought. “Robb Stark, I would love nothing more than to marry you, tonight,” she started slowly. When he opened his mouth she pressed her fingers gently to his lips. “But we cannot.” 

          He pulled away from her, expression incredulous. After a moment, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of their pallet, his broad back all she could see. The play of his muscles was beautiful, but there was tension there that spoke of hurt and anger. 

          Her heart broke. “You know why we can’t,” she kept her voice steady only through strength of will. “I would not be cause for contention among your men.” Already there were grumbles about the time they spent together. Some of the Frey men had taken to calling her the King's Whore, but the few times she heard the words hissed in her direction they were quickly silenced. 

          “My men know better than to tarnish the name of their queen,” the words were almost a growl. Outside the tent, a rumbling started but cut off sharply. Gray Wind echoing his master’s discontent. 

          “They do,” she agreed as she sat up. He turned to face her. “But they will still talk, and that can lead to problems you do not need during a war. They whisper about me already, you know. Half of them think me a foreign sorceress, the other a Lannister spy.” That rumor was the most persistent, though it never stopped them from letting her see to their hurts. She supposed they felt that since none of their number were done false by her so far she was safe enough to them. Northmen were strangely practical that way. 

          His eyes darkened in anger. “I will stop their whispers.” 

          “How?” She smiled softly. “By cutting out their tongues? I know men who’ve done that, wishing their secrets to always be kept.” 

          Robb recoiled in distaste. It was foreign to him, the thought of owning another to the point where even their words were your property, the ability to take them away nothing more than a moment’s whim. “You are the lady of a noble house of Volantis,” he tried a different tactic. “I have dishonored you. Your house will demand satisfaction.” 

          “Or I dishonored you,” she countered. “In Volantis either case is possible.” Unusual, yes, and mostly dependent on the age of the boy, but possible. 

          His smile was blinding. “Then I demand you repair my honor through marriage, my lady.” 

          “No.” 

          The word was flat, little more than a whisper, but it destroyed his smile and leeched color from his cheeks. She wanted to say yes. To throw her arms around him and kiss away the pain in his eyes, but she could not. _I would, my love,_ she thought as she stood, reaching for her dress. _But I fear it might destroy you._

          She was slipping her arm into a sleeve when his hand wrapped around her wrist. “I would not make you a whore.” 

          “And you haven’t.” She gave a pointed glance to his hand, and he loosened his grip enough for her to free herself and finish dressing, though she left the ties undone. She lifted the hand and cupped his cheek, unable to stop a smile when he pressed a kiss into her palm. She waited until his eyes met hers to speak again, so he could see the truth of her words. “I love you.” She placed a gentle kiss on his lips but pulled back before it could deepen. His eyes were closed. “Never doubt that, if you doubt anything else. But we cannot.” 

          They stood that way, her hand cupping his cheek, his eyes closed against the truth, for long minutes. She needed him to move first. To pull away because she did not have the strength. _I will not break,_ she repeated the words again and again. _I_ cannot _break._

          Finally, he pulled away. “I had hoped…” he trailed off and moved back to the bed, sitting on the soft furs. “My father and mother were strangers when they wed,” he started slowly. “Married on the eve of a war he didn’t know he would return from. Married in place of a brother who died in King’s Landing. I heard the story a thousand times growing up, but I never doubted they loved each other. It was the best I could hope for, to grow to love the woman my father chose.” His eyes held hers, glittering like sapphires. 

          “My mother chose the man I would marry before I flowered.” She could still remember her fear when she was presented to her future husband, a girl of ten trying to be regal in her new silk gown as everyone spoke over her head. “It was my duty to marry a man near fifteen years my senior, and yet I refused.” She could not marry a man whose family made their fortune through slaving, not after her brother. Her house was still dealing with the blowback, she knew, and her father refused to write to her for the face she lost him. “My grandmother would say this is my penance, to be shown what I could have, knowing it cannot be.” 

          “Then we will take what we have.” Robb’s hand cupped hers. “If I cannot have you to wife, I will have you now. For as long as you will have me, Lady Talisa Maegyr. You will have my heart, always. You and any children you may bear. This I vow.” 

          A gust of wind whipped the walls of the tent around them, carrying with it a sliver of cold that quickly faded. _Perhaps he does have the ear of his gods._ Tears filled her eyes. “And you will have my heart always, Robb Stark.” _And there will be no children,_ though she longed for a child with his eyes and her olive skin. One who would speak High Valyrian with a hint of a northern accent. There were few places bastards were not looked down upon, and a royal bastard was always in danger. 

          “When I am wed-” 

          “I will leave.” She would leave before that. She would not be a shadow in this Frey girl’s life. Not more than she already would be. “I will be a memory of sweetness in the bitterness of war, and in time you will grow to love your queen as your father grew to love your mother. As my father learned to love mine.” 

          Robb laughed at that, more breath than sound. “We have become a song, my lady. My sister would swoon.” 

          “Arya?” 

          His nose wrinkled. “Sansa. Arya would tell us we were both being stupid, but if we had to fall in love we should just run away together, consequences be damned.” 

          She chuckled softly. _Would that we could_. “I would like to meet Arya one day, I think. And Sansa.” What would his sisters make of her, a woman who sailed half-way around the world to escape her fate? 

          Robb shook his head. “You will put wild ideas in my sister’s head.” 

          “It sounds like she has enough ideas of her own.” 

          The king sobered. “Would you stay with me tonight, my lady?” 

          “Yes.” _And for all the nights we may have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope I didn't drift too out of character with them. I just really wished one of them would come down out of the clouds for one moment and realize that love doesn't conquer all. Talisa is from one of the Triarch houses of Volantis, so she would have been raised learning about court intrigue and the consequences of breaking a betrothal of that magnitude. The Maegyr's are also part of the Tiger party, who are all for war and conquest, so she should have some understanding about that as well. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed ^_^


	4. In Which One of the Lovers Gets a Clue (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A man without honor is nothing, Robb._  
>  Strange, how is father's voice could be so welcome and yet not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this scene from both perspectives and didn't know which one I was happier with (neither, really), so I decided to post them both. Apologies for OOC-ness or needless sap.

          He must end it. 

          His mother’s words echoed through him as he lay next to Talisa, her golden skin glowing in the lamplight. _You are not free to love where you will._ They were words he knew to be true. He was always meant to marry a girl of high birth, a girl of his parent’s choosing, most like. A girl of good Northern stock who would bear him Northern children so that there would always be a Stark in Winterfell. Or perhaps a Southron maid, though that was far less likely. A sweet thing of gentle breeding who would come to love the North as his mother did. 

          Talisa was neither of those things. 

          Talisa Maegyr was beauty and life, grace and passion. She tended the soldiers who fell on the battlefield no matter what side they fought for and dared anyone to challenge her. She spoke her mind and was not afraid to show her displeasure to the King in the North. She was everything he wanted, and the one thing he could not have. 

          _This was a mistake,_ Robb thought as he watched her sleep, her soft breaths lost in the furs covering them. He found himself wondering what she would look like with snowflakes peppering her hair and sticking to her lashes. Saw her smiling as they rode through the Wolfswood for the first time. He pushed the thoughts aside. It was madness, this fire that filled his heart. He did not expect to find love amid the horrors of war, and yet here he was. 

          The woman beside him shifted, sucking in a breath. “You think loudly, Your Grace.” Talisa said the words without opening her eyes, voice heavy. 

          “I have much to think on, my lady,” he found himself teasing back without a second thought. 

          Talisa smiled and opened eyes well sated and drowsy with sleep. She frowned, and he imagined his thoughts were plain on his face. She reached up, one hand going to cup his cheek. “What is it?” 

          Robb sat up, away from her warmth. _I must end this. I should never have started it._ “I have played you false, Lady Talisa,” he said hoarsely. 

          Her confusion only deepened at his withdrawal. “Robb?” 

          “I have made free with your body,” he said slowly. “I have done so knowing I am promised to another and cannot wed. I have dishonored you.” 

          “Or I have dishonored you,” she replied after a moment of silence. “It is possible, in Volantis.” There was a smile in her voice. “Though you need not worry about my family seeking to repair your honor.” 

          Her words made him smile. “So you will not be forced to wed the Northern barbarian you dishonored?” 

          “Never, no matter how thoroughly it was done.” Her smile faded. “But you are right. This…we… cannot be.” 

          There was a moment, crystal clear and shining, where he could see himself throwing caution to the wind. THey could ride to a sept tonight. He could wed the woman before him, his honor and word be damned. He was king, and a king did as he liked. His men would come to love Talisa as he did, in time. The North would love the queen that braved the battlefield for her people. _Talisa the Merciful_ they would name her. 

          _A man without honor is nothing, Robb._ The words dashed cold water on that vision, spoken in his father’s sure voice. A lesson given when he tried to blame Jon for one of his follies when they were boys. There were many things a man could buy, steal, or swindle and many others that could be taken away but honor was the only one that had to be given. And which vow should he honor? The one made to pay an old, greedy man, or the one made by his heart? 

          Delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist and drew him out of his thoughts. Talisa watched him with her dark eyes. There was sadness there, and understanding, but no anger. “You have not dishonored me, Robb Stark, or played me false,” she told him. “Nor have I dishonored you.” She rolled from beneath the furs, hands reaching for her underdress. “Your betrothal has been no secret to me.” 

          She dressed silently, and he felt his heart slipping away as she covered herself. He reached for his own robe, though he wasn’t cold. A highborn Westerosi woman would demand he satisfy her honor with marriage. Not for the first time he wondered how different the traditions of Volantis were from his own. 

          After slipping on her boots Talisa turned, revealing the loosened laces at the back. “Will you?” 

          The practice he had over the last weeks made short work of his task. “So this is all we will be to each other,” he said, hands going to her shoulders. “Moments stolen in the heart of war.” 

          “Sweet moments,” she added. “Much needed and welcome.” 

          Talisa was cloaked and ready, but Robb found himself unable to let her go just yet. _A few more moments,_ he thought. “I suppose you’ll have to go back to spying, now that your attempt to seduce the Young Wolf away from the war has failed,” he quipped. 

          She tossed her head and adopted a look of haughty disdain. “Well, I’ve learned everything I needed. I’ve been stealing your correspondence as you slept. The lovemaking was an unexpected bonus.” 

          "If there is a child-" What would they do? Could he sentence his child to a life of bastardy? Send it away to be raised some crofter's son, or to perhaps become a septa? He saw what Jon did to his mother, the way the boy enraged her; a walking monument to her husband's weakness. He could not do that to his wife, nor could he abandon a child. _Is this how father felt during the war? Loving one but pledged to another?_

          "There will be no child," her words were soft and sure. 

          Robb took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on its back. “Lady Maegyr.” 

          “Your Grace.” 

          Robb lifted the flap of the tent. “Giles,” he called. The guard came to attention. “My King?” 

          “See Lady Talisa to the healer’s tents, he ordered. “Then return to be relieved. It’s past the hour of the wolf.” 

          “Yes, my King,” Giles said. 

          Talisa walked into the night, past the rest of his stationed guards. Not ten feet from the tent Gray Wind joined them. 

          Robb poured himself a glass of wine and drank deeply, staring into the brazier that warmed his tent. Tomorrow perhaps, they would see each other. Pass among the tents or fall into step while on the march. Tomorrow he would be Robb Stark, King in the North, and one tomorrow, maybe soon, he would cloak a Frey girl in Stark colors as his honor demanded. Tonight he would drink. 

          And remember.


	5. In Which Sansa Gets Unexpected Help

          Sansa heard Petyr’s men behind her thundering through the marshland as quickly as they could on their horses, the clang of their armor a cacophony at her back as she ran across the soggy ground. The knights of the Vale shouted her name, calling into the darkness but she did not answer, only focused on moving forward. On getting away. Once, she would have turned, would have trusted the men to keep her safe from the horrors of the night. The girl she'd been, the girl who hung on songs of brave men and beautiful damsels was long dead, and men were more monstrous than any horror she could conjure.  


          Sansa thought she would get farther from their camp than she did, planned on getting farther than a hundred yards before she was discovered missing from her small tent. Her plan was simple, so simple it should have worked. She’d begged tiredness after her evening meal and retreated to her tent to rest as she did every night of their journey. She made certain to be just as meek and attentive as Petyr liked, giving nothing of her intentions away. The moon was approaching its full, so she waited for a night when the clouds were thick. No one should have seen her sneak through the slit she cut in the thick fabric of her tent with the dagger she stole or noticed she was missing for hours yet. The letters from the Eerie's septon declared her still a maid, and Petyr was careful not to offend her soon-to-be husband or call her virginity into question. The septa she traveled with was well in her cups by the time their dinner was eaten, and the woman was dead to the world as Sansa waited for hours to pass before attempting her plan. 

          It was a plan hastily made. When Lady Brienne appeared days ago with Tyrion's squire and promised to protect her Sansa began plotting her escape. A part of her wanted nothing more than to go with the knight then, a woman who in their few moments of interaction was truer than any knight she met in the south, but Sansa knew better. Petyr would never let her go, and she had no desire for Brienne and Pod to die so she feigned anger and disdain. Petyr made sure to increase the patrols after the encounter but her guards were mostly to keep someone from taking her, their eyes turned outward to deal with any intruders and not to keep her from running away. No one suspected little Sansa Stark of trying to flee from her saviors, not after she refused the strange knight and her squire and why would she? They were taking her home.  


          _It won’t be home,_ she thought as she ran. _It will never be home again._ Trapped in King's Landing she would have done anything, said anything to go home, or so she believed, even marry a base-born bastard. The closer they came to Winterfell, the more the chill of the North filled her lungs, the more she realized that she could not go home. Not with Boltons ruling the North from her father’s seat, or by being pawned off to the recently legitimized bastard of the lord that killed her brother and mother. Even if it meant facing Cersei Lannister's wrath, she would not spit on their memory so.  


          Sansa stumbled, splashing herself with water and thicker things as she clawed her way back to her feet, moving steadily towards the trees that loomed in the moonlight and trying to ignore the ever louder sounds behind her. They were in the Neck, well above the Twins and closer to Winterfell than she’d been in four years, but she wasn’t running north. She was running west, into the swamps that stretched to either side of the causeway and their small camp.  


          The sound of a horse screaming, followed by curses, made her move faster. Sansa didn’t know much about the Neck, only that House Reed ruled there and that Howland Reed was the Stark’s most loyal bannerman. Her father sometimes spoke of the swamps. telling tales of lizard lions large enough to swallow a man whole and snakes so poisonous a single bite could kill in seconds. Often his tales focused on the people of the Neck, and how they guarded their strange land against invaders. Bog Devils, they were called, and willo-the-wisps, attacking would-be conquerors like shadows in the night. No one knew how many crannogmen lived in the wide expanse of the Neck; there were no villages that anyone could find and many claimed the seat of House Reed moved so no messenger or raven could find it. The crannogmen appeared and disappeared at will, and whole armies were lost within their domain. If any could protect her, it would be House Reed. Even Cersei would be unable to find her if she was with them.  


          She was perhaps thirty feet from the trees when a horse cut into her path and she reared back, falling into a puddle with a stifled shout before fighting her way back to her feet. She wanted to scream, to cry and curse. She was almost free. Free to be eaten by a lizard-lion or bitten by a viper, free to starve or drown or be sucked under by quicksand but she would be free. She could have hidden within the trees and wandered the Neck until one of Lord Reed’s men found her, and they always found those who entered their domain without permission. The knights in their armor would be too slow and heavy to follow her once she was hidden in the thick growth.  


Sansa fought hot tears as the knights on their mounts formed a circle around her, the torchlight glinting off their armor. After a few moments, Petyr appeared on his bay looking as neat as always, as if they were taking a ride through a flower-strewn meadow and not chasing a noblewoman through the marshes past the hour of the wolf. He dismounted and approached her slowly as if she were a wild animal, hands open and slightly in front of him. The flickering torchlight made his features even sharper and cast red shadows on his pale skin, turning him into a demon come to steal her soul. “Sansa.”  


          The disappointment in his voice made her feel ashamed, but she fought the feeling down. He was not her father, to make her feel so. He was the man who planned on selling her to her family's killers because it was to his benefit. She shook her head and stepped away from away from him. “I can’t marry him,” she whispered, the tears in her eyes threatening to fall. “I thought I could do it but I can’t. I won't.”  


          She could not marry Ramsey Bolton, not to save her own life, not for Winterfell and not for Petyr’s schemes. She was a Stark. The last trueborn Stark in all of Westeros, last of the line of the Kings of Winter that stretched back ten thousand years. She was of the North, and the North would always remember. For the first time in what felt like decades, she was remembering; remembering who she was, remembering her worth, and she was worth more than an up-jumped bastard, heir to the kings her ancestors should have killed centuries ago.  


          Petyr stopped at her words, his expression calm and so sad, though the emotion was not reflected in his eyes. “You must do this, Sansa,” his tone was imploring, but there was a hint of steel beneath it. “Lord Bolton plans to meet you in the morning with his son, and you must be there. If you break this betrothal, there is nothing to keep him from telling the Lannister’s that you are still alive and where you have hidden. I have no doubt he would, after such a slight. If the crown marches on the Vale I don’t know if I would be able to protect you.”  


          “Please,” she pleaded. “I have no wish to go North. I want to return to the Vale, to my family. I ask that you see me back to Sweet Robyn. My cousin will protect me.”  


          In the songs she grew up memorizing the men would listen to her concerns and ride with her back to the Vale. She would be presented to her cousin to explain why she had to remain in his lands. Perhaps she would dye her hair and become Alayne Stone in truth: a bastard of no importance to royalty. In time she would find a man and fall in love, bear him children and live a good life as Sansa Stark passed into memory. In time she would tell her grandchildren tales about a wolf trapped in a gilded cage by a cruel king and his mother. One that wished to be free so badly she grew wings and flew away from her captors, never to be seen again.  


          Her life was no song.  


          None of the guards moved at her words, though one gave her an unpleasant smile. To a man, they wore the mockingbird of House Baelish, though she could have sworn many wore the hawk and crescent of House Arryn hours ago. There would be no Vale-men to hear her, and before they returned to camp she had no doubt Petyr would somehow make her marriage the best of her options. He might even be right. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he told her, though there was no regret in his voice. “I-“  


          A high, keening howl broke through the night, followed by the sound of men shouting and horses screaming in fear. In the distance, she could make out dark shapes moving against the flames of the camp, shapes that attacked man and horse alike. The night was filled with growls and snarls and sharp yips as the darkness attacked from all sides.  


          “We’re under attack!” One of the knights shouted, pulling his blade free and turning towards the darkness.  


          Littlefinger lunged forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards his horse. Between one moment and the next, the darkness was upon them, sending the horses rearing and toppling their riders into the mud, their torches dying in the damp with sharp hisses. Petyr’s grip vanished beneath a huge shape that bore him to the ground, and before his scream had time to echo in her ears it was silenced in a wet gurgle.  


          Sansa fell backward as one of the horses turned to run, its rider lost in a mound of living black. She crawled away, heart pounding in her chest as she tried to escape, only to be stopped by low, warning growls she did not dare look up to investigate. Instead, she turned, curled into herself and prayed her death would be quick. The heavy clouds that obscured the moon parted then, and she saw what had attacked their party.  


          The night was alive with wolves.  


          There had to be dozens of them, maybe hundreds, killing knights and horses alike. The two dozen knights, many outside their armor because of the late hour, fell easily. Those still in plate fought, but even they were brought down by the sheer number of predators. In the distance one of the tents caught fire, and the night filled with the high-pitched screams of a woman. A few of the horses managed to fight free of the picket lines and thundered into the night with smaller groups of wolves giving chase. In less time than she would have imagined, the screams stopped, and a deep silence descended.  


          _I’m still alive._ The thought bounced in her chest, tried to curl up her throat in a scream, but Sansa fought it down. Whatever strange magic kept her safe from the wolves she would not break it. Could not break it. She huddled, shivering, wet, and cold in the muck, as the sound of animals feeding surrounded her.  


          A shape separated itself from the others and stalked across the open ground towards her, monstrous compared to the other wolves. She remembered Petyr laughing at tales of a giant wolf terrorizing the Riverlands, calling them stories told by fools to explain the worst excesses of men. She glanced at where Littlefinger lay and looked away quickly. His belly was ripped open, two wolves snarling at each other as they ate.  


          The great wolf was silent as a shadow in the silver moonlight, but she could see the white of its chest and forelegs, the dark coloring that crept up its head and ears. The coloring struck a memory, and as the wolf came to a stop in front of her Sansa breathed one word.  


          “Nymeria.”  


          The creature lowered its head at the name, golden eyes fixed on Sansa with an intelligence that was startling in an animal. The wolf had to be Nymeria. She was over twice the size of the wolves around her, and the only direwolves south of the wall belonged to the Starks. A direwolf lost in the Riverlands, driven away by Arya to save her life. Even then, Arya knew the Lannisters better than anyone.  


          When the animal didn’t move Sansa felt hope begin to die in her chest. She was wrong; her life was no song and this beast would be her death. A fitting one for a Stark, but death all the same. _I will not die like this, now cowering in fear,_ Sansa thought. She held out her hand, willing it to remain steady as she closed her eyes. If she was wrong, if this wasn’t Nymeria she would lose a hand before the pack finished her off. Even if it was her sister’s direwolf she had been running wild for years and likely didn’t remember her mistress’s sister. Would see her as nothing more than another piece of meat to be killed and eaten like the rest.  


          A soft, cool wetness touched her, followed by a velvety tongue. Sansa’s eyes flew open as the wolf nuzzled her hand with a groaning whine. The sensation reminded her so much of Lady she felt her heart skip. _“Nymeria.”_  


          She didn’t know when she started sobbing, only that it seemed one moment she was staring at her sister’s direwolf, and the next her face was buried in the thick, pungent fur at her neck. Nymeria pulled back and began licking her face, and she could almost hear Arya telling her to stop crying, that there was no need for tears.  


          Sansa felt movement at her back, and Nymeria let out a growl that froze her blood and vibrated in her chest. A whine answered, and the presence at her back moved away. Nymeria turned back to her, cold nose huffing great breaths into her hair as the direwolf breathed in her scent. When Nymeria seemed to smell her fill she backed away, giving Sansa room to slowly stand. From her feet the direwolf was even larger, her head brushing against Sansa’s chest, breath warm and humid and smelling of blood and other things. Without warning, Nymeria threw back her head and let out a howl that was quickly picked up by the other members of the pack, hundreds of voices undulated against each other in various harmonies. As a child, the howls of wolves frightened Sansa. They brought to mind Old Nan's stories of little girls losing their way in the woods and being devoured. Now, they filled her with a sense of purpose. Of power.  


          With a laugh that was almost a sob, Sansa threw back her head and howled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I so love Nymeria basically being a bad ass bitch (quite literally) in the Riverlands and wondered what would happen if she and Sansa met again. Plus, I really, truly want Littlefinger to get eaten before the series ends. Showrunners/Martin, make that happen for me.


	6. In Which Doran is...Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn was a rattlesnake, body coiled, loudly alerting everyone to the danger he posed. No one thought the viper was a distraction, not until they were felled by the bloodsnake waiting silently under the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another long story that I stopped writing because I am trying not to start more than one large fic at a time. Almost strictly show-verse this time. I love the Sandsnakes and Ellaria and the Dornish storyline... _in the books_. What the showrunners did after Oberyn's death is just... I have no words. Doran is supposed to be the smart one. In fact, he hints that he used Oberyn's brashness to cover his own schemes, because who is paying attention to stately, sickly Doran while Oberyn is tear-assing around the world? So, knowing that she _just attempted to kidnap the crown princess and is clearly acting unhinged_ why would he trust any oaths Ellaria made to behave?

          Prince Doran enjoyed the opportunity to walk the gardens again, glad of the chance to stretch his legs no matter how painful. He no longer needed to pretend to be a complete cripple, now that the little lioness was gone; taken back to her mother and the snake pit that was King’s Landing. The thought of the capital was enough to send familiar shivers of disgust through him. For all that Doran had stayed at court in his few travels to the capital, he never learned to love it. There was something cold about the keep that had nothing to do with the horrors that were perpetrated there. It was not meant to be anything other than what it was: a sign of Targaryen might that dared the rest of the kingdoms to attempt to overthrow them. He imagined it was much the same now that Lannisters sat on the throne.  


          Doran breathed deeply as he stopped beside a fountain, letting the warmth of his lands chase away the chill that tried to settle in his lungs thinking such dark thoughts. The air was heavy with the scent of sun-baked tile and flowers and beneath that, like a desert dream, the scent of earth and water. The Water Gardens served as a retreat for House Martell for centuries; a lush world of swaying palms and delicate carvings designed to ease the troubles of any ruler. Sunspear was his seat, the place from which he ruled his people, but the Gardens would always be his heart.  


          There were those who found it hard to believe that such a thing could exist in Dorne. They saw the beauty of the Water Gardens and ignored the centuries it took to coax such bounty from the sands. Before they learned the art of aiding the soil the kings and queens of Dorne ordered large quantities of good, fertile earth shipped from the northern sides of the Marches and down the Torrentine and Boneway to line deep stone beds in their castle gardens. No small number of skirmishes and at least two wars between Dorne and her northern neighbors could find their cause in that.  


          Ellaria and Tyene joined him beneath a swaying palm and they fell into easy conversation. He spoke of Oberyn, not as a taunt but a reminder. Of who she was, of the man they both loved before politics and rashness stole him from them. Her eyes took in the number of guards that followed him, half-again their normal number. A small frown creased the skin between her eyes as she glanced at her daughter, but he continued to speak as if he noticed nothing. Doran almost believed she wouldn’t try to execute her mad plan, that she would recognize the signs and he could have a conversation with her without bloodshed.  


          He was wrong.  


          When Ellaria burst into motion she expected him to be defenseless against her, believing she had his guards to a man. He could see the surprise on her face at movement behind him, had only the barest of moments to feel the wind of her movement before his guards were on her, knocking her to the floor as they fought. A servant rolled his chair away quickly lest he be injured in the fray. Doran watched as Tyene’s dagger found the throat of one of his men, spraying blood onto the thick foliage surrounding them before she, too, was subdued. He could see Oberyn in the way Tyene held her blade, small and no doubt coated with some terrible poison. Remembered his brother in Ellaria’s well-executed kick that almost sent Bellos flying over the balcony.  


          After long moments the fight was finished, and he was relieved that neither woman appeared seriously injured aside from a small trickle of blood that stained his niece’s lips and teeth. He owed Oberyn that, at least.  


          “Did you think I didn’t know?”  


          Doran kept his voice even only through strength of will. Ellaria struggled against the guards that forced her to kneel before him, cursing their mothers and children with every breath. Even in the depths of her rage she was beautiful, dark eyes alight and face flushed. He often wondered what Oberyn found so fascinating about Lord Uller’s daughter. What made him brave the madness that ran thick in their blood but in that moment, he knew. Tyene for her part was silent, arms tense. Not actively fighting, but not giving an inch to her captors.  


          “I knew, Ellaria. I knew from the moment you sent Cersei that necklace.” He sat back in his chair. Myrcella was inconsolable when the necklace went missing. His son spent hours enlisting the help of every servant and smallperson he could find to comb the beach, never knowing that what he sought was in the hands of one of his cousins.  


          When Ellaria said nothing he gestured, and Areo pulled the woman upright as a contingent of guards dragged Tyene away, lifting the girl off her feet when she refused to go quietly. Ellaria’s eyes were wide with panic as the girl vanished from her sight. “Where are you taking her?”  


          The Prince of Dorne ignored her question and turned to the gardens, unable to look at his brother’s paramour any longer. It was a beautiful day, even with winter swiftly moving in from the North. The sky was gray with clouds that gathered on a breeze cooler than any in his recent memory, the trees heavy with their last burden of summer fruit, ready to be picked by the kitchen staff and preserved for winter. He smiled at the memory of Myrcella and her fondness of preserves made from blood oranges, a fondness great enough that he sent her home with a crate of jars.  


          The Prince sighed heavily. Myrcella was a welcome addition to his household despite the complications, and now she was gone because of one woman’s recklessness. “The first guard who heard your tale of insurrection came to me, begging for leave to kill you.” His eyes swung back to his brother’s paramour. “I thought, ‘surely, it is only her grief. Ellaria would not doubt my words, or act in a way that would harm Dorne.’” She said nothing, so he continued. “When you persisted, I had you followed. When your grumbles grew louder I decided to see how far you would go in this madness.”  


          Her eyes went to Daeron Sand, one of his personal guard and the first she approached with her plans. He was one of Oberyn’s oldest lovers and wept openly when Doran told him of his brother’s fate. The man’s gaze was hostile in return.  


          “You are all traitors to Dorne!” Her gaze swung to take in the stony faces of those surrounding her. “Your prince is slain, and you would let that bitch return to her den instead of avenging Oberyn’s murder!”  


          “Oberyn was not murdered!” Doran shouted back, hands gripping the carved arms of his chair hard enough to make his joints scream in agony. “No one forced him to fight the Mountain! No one told him to champion Tyrion Lannister! His need to take any opportunity to avenge our sister put plans nearly two decades in the making at risk. Your behavior has only made it worse!  


          “We were close, so close to seeing true justice done for the murder of our kin.” He forced his fingers to relax, to calm himself before he ordered Ellaria executed, her father and Oberyn’s memory be damned. “Oberyn could have taken Tywin Lannister’s head himself, instead of removing the hand and dying for it. My nieces would still have a father, I would still have a brother and your love would still be alive.”  


          Ellaria let out a small laugh. “So you had plans?” she scoffed. “What plans? You’ve done nothing but sit in that chair for years as the world passed outside these walls.” Her smile was mocking. “Your sister is murdered, and you do nothing.” The words were dagger-sharp, digging into places better left undisturbed. “Your niece and nephew are slaughtered, and Dorne sits idle. Your brother-” she bit off the word. “If you had plans, you would have told Oberyn, and he would have told me.”  


          Doran narrowed his eyes. “Obviously, he did not.”  


          The surety of his words startled her, and some of her fire cooled to uncertainty. For so long Oberyn had only his paramour for comfort, a woman he whispered all his secrets to, save the ones they shared. The ones that could mean war with the Iron Throne. “For the love my brother bore you and for the sake of your children, I will not see you executed. Consider that the larger part of my mercy.” He raised his hand and Ellaria was dragged away screaming.  


          The prince sat in silence for nearly an hour, staring at the Gardens as servants worked silently around him. He gave instructions for Quentyn’s body to be removed and dressed for burial with a heavy heart. The boy only joined his service less than a sennight ago, the youth so proud and eager to serve his prince. Now he was dead for the twisted schemes of a madwoman and her daughters. The blood was quickly cleaned from the tiles and no one would have imagined the violence done only a short time ago.  


          When the captain of his guard returned to his side the prince huffed a small, humorless laugh. “You think me soft, Areo?”  


          His guard shifted forward. “She planned to kill you both.”  


          He nodded. “She did.” What Ellaria was thinking he could not be sure. Without Trystane it would mean conflict as his vassals fought to determine who ruled after them. He knew his people well: Dorne would not accept a bastard, even one of Oberyn’s, as their princess. “Ellaria is unhinged by grief. Her Uller blood has finally caught up to her.”  


          “And the girls?”  


          “Have too much of their father in them.” _We were so close, Oberyn,_ he thought. _A few more months, perhaps a year, and our revenge would be complete._ In the face of twenty years, what were a few months? “Did they kill anyone else?”  


          “Two of the guard. Obara will have a pretty scar to scare away her suitors.”  


          Doran sighed deeply, tried to his bones. “Find out if they have family,” he commanded. “Be sure their widows and children are cared for until the end of their days.”  


          “It will be done, my prince.” The captain held out a rolled parchment. “A message arrived from Jaha.”  


          The message was short and spoke only of a shipment of hardwoods ready to make sail to Planky Town within the week. Welcome news on such a dark day. He placed the letter in a sleeve pocket to be burned later. “Send for Maester Caloette, I have a missive that needs writing. You will see it into the hands of Captain Azor aboard the _Bright Lady_ personally. Then, we must travel to Sunspear.”  


          Prince Doran took a last look at the splendor of the gardens and gestured for his servant to wheel him into the palace. Things were moving swiftly ahead, but not at a pace that was untenable. Daenerys would not stay in Mereen for much longer. His reports said she was building ships as fast as she could to accommodate her growing followers for the journey across the Narrows Sea.  


          He imaged his gift of seventy ships would be most welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Doran in this fic does not believe for an instant that Ellaria and the Sandsnakes have given up their scheming, he's just curious to see exactly how far she is willing to go, and how far his brother's daughters are willing to let her drag them down.
> 
> There is a lot of side stuff in the fic that isn't included in this snippet, so I will sum up:  
> 1\. In exchange for peace with the Iron Throne, Jon Arryn negotiates with Doran to drastically reduce the taxes imposed on Dorne as blood-price for Elia. It's the least they could do, considering what happened to his sister and her children.  
> 2\. Doran uses that money to help Daenerys and Viserys as they grow, though he has to be on the down-low about it. He has watchers that keep them relatively safe and gives them some monetary aid. How else would two small children have survived in Essos for so long?  
> 3\. The rest of the money Dorne isn't giving to the Iron Throne goes into building Daenerys an Armada once Doran learns that she has married a Dothraki Khal and will most likely use him to retake the Seven Kingdoms. Even Robert saw that coming. These ships are being built at a port in the Summer Isles where the Dornish maintain a small presence.  
> 4\. Why the Summer Isles? It's 700 miles south, offshore, the people are known as amazing shipwrights (as well as bow and spearmen), and it wouldn't seem strange for a 'poor' kingdom like Dorne to want to build ships to expand their trade both with the isles and Essos. Because it has such rich trade you could even realistically hide the coming and going of ships.  
> 5\. The ships were meant mostly to be large transport vessels, with some military ships like dromunds thrown in.  
> 6\. I like to imagine that Dorne has always had good if quiet trade relations with the Summer Isles and something of a small colony there. Considering their religion, I'm sure Oberyn made his way to them a few times.
> 
> I also have another scene where Doran, Olenna and Varys basically snark at each other over cheese.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed ^_^


	7. In Which a Spider, a Viper, and a Rose Have a Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of In Which Doran is Doran. I really just wanted all three of them together, scheming to bring down Cersei.

        “It has been nearly twenty years since Dorne hosted a Tyrell.” 

        “It would have been a hundred more if I had any say.” 

        Prince Doran Martell ignored the jibe and gestured for Lady Olenna to join him at the small table in his sitting room. Her clothes were the heavy, unrelieved black of deep mourning, and the stark material stole what color she had from her cheeks. Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, looked… diminished. Not weak, he couldn’t imagine a world in which she was that, but the recent tragedies of her house looked to have taken something vital away from her. “I trust the voyage from Highgarden was uneventful.” The doubled patrols along the coastline reported little pirate activity as the seas roughened. 

        The woman glared at him. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?” she demanded curtly. 

        He lifted his hand in vague assent. “But of course.” 

        “Cersei has declared herself queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Lady Tyrell ground out as a servant poured her a glass or Arbor gold from a chilled decanter. “Queen! By what right is she a queen?” she scoffed. “Robert Baratheon was a usurper and kinslayer. She birthed a monster and a weakling by turns, both spawn of her brother. She kills my granddaughter to save her own skin and now she sits the Iron Throne. The woman has gone mad.” 

        “We are in agreement.” Cersei Lannister was mad, and not the least for having herself crowned. Killing Margaery severed any ties the crown had with the Reach. Without Tyrell grain and stores King’s Landing would begin to starve in less than a month, and Oberyn was very clear in his missives that the crown would be unable to buy supplies from Essos for any length of time. Half the Seven Kingdoms were burned and pillaged, and any house that might have offered aid could only think of surviving the coming winter themselves. Rumors spread from the North that a Stark was once again in Winterfell who commanded the knights of the Vale, and the Iron Bank clamored about Casterly Rock missing payments on outstanding loans, never mind the Iron Throne itself. Cersei may have crowned herself queen, but wearing a crown in a snake pit would not protect her from the vipers. “Whether Cersei is mad is irrelevant,” Doran said. “The question is, what do we plan to do about it?” 

        “Cersei Lannister cannot be allowed to sit on the Iron Throne,” Olenna’s voice was ice itself. “Else none of us will last the winter.” 

        _Dorne would,_ Doran thought ungraciously. No army, from the Gardeners to the Storm Lords to Aegon himself managed to conquer Dorne. The Reach would survive, if only through the force of its levies. “And do you have a plan to remove Cersei from her perch?” he asked. 

        Olenna gave him a shrewd look. “My plan was killed by wildfire. Yours was poisoned on her way to her mother.” 

        “No, she was not.” 

        That caught the woman’s attention. “You planned to marry your son to her daughter. House Baratheon is extinct. Without Tommen, the crown would have passed to Myrcella and her children. A handy thing, that.” 

        “True,” he allowed, taking a small sip of honeyed water. 

        “Princess Myrcella was never meant to leave Dorne,” a new voice said from the door. 

        Lady Olenna’s mouth tightened as Varys joined them on the veranda. The eunuch arrived a week before and was hard at work resurrecting his network of spies and cutting out those parts controlled by Qyburn. That he at times managed to escape the spies Doran put on him was swiftly becoming a cause for concern. “I wondered when you would reappear, Spider.” 

        Varys gave her a small smile. “My work takes me unexpected places at unexpected times, my Lady,” his voice was full of false sadness as he waited for a servant to bring him a chair. “Often I myself do not know where or when.” 

        “This time Varys’ work took him across the Narrow Sea,” Doran explained. “Before we speak further I must know how determined you are to see justice done, Lady Tyrell.” 

        Olenna’s dark eyes glittered. “Cersei Lannister has stolen the future of my house,” she answered, voice choked with well-controlled anger. “Wylas is unable to have children. My son, useless as he was, could have married a young thing and carried on our name, but he was killed alongside Margaery and Loras. I would have vengeance for my dead.” 

        “The Lannisters have taken much from everyone at this table,” Varys injected smoothly. “They have fomented war and drained the kingdoms near dry. It is time we began to take some of those things back.” 

        Olenna looked between the two of them, then chuckled. “You mean to bring Daenerys Targaryen back from Merreen. Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she chided them both at their expressions. “The Seven Kingdoms would never accept a crippled Dornishman, a foreign eunuch, or a withered old crone as ruler. If the Starks are back in the North I doubt anything short of the end of the world could persuade them to travel south of the Neck. The heir to the Vale has barely stopped sucking his mother’s teat, and only because of her death. That leaves one person that might be accepted, provided she isn’t as mad as her father, and she is in Mereen.” 

        “Daenerys Targaryen is the rightful queen,” said Varys. 

        “She’s a slip of a girl half a world away,” Olenna countered. “Supported by an army of foreigners, mercenaries, and Dothraki. The mercenaries will stay only so long as they are paid, and I imagine a peasant in Essos isn’t much different from one here, but Dothraki do not settle,” she continued bluntly. “They rape and pillage. They deal in slaves and murder any who try to resist. How does this girl plan to keep them from destroying what little is left of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

        “It appears that whatever happened in Mereen, she has broken the Dothraki to her yoke as she has broken Slaver’s Bay.” Varys sat at the table. “Danerys has three dragons, thousands of Unsullied, the Second Sons, and thousands of former slaves who will do anything she commands, including rebuilding the kingdoms. Even now she calls on shipwrights to complete enough ships to carry her entire host to Westeros. When I left, they had perhaps half the number needed, but there have been… complications.” 

        “Pretty word for sabotage,” Olenna said as she lifted her glass. 

        “Sabotage or no, it is a problem easily dealt with,” Doran repositioned himself in his chair. “Dorne has not paid taxes to the crown in any substantial amount for nearly twenty years, and we have put those funds to good use.” 

        Lady Tyrell sat back in her chair. “I wonder if the prince would like to tell me how he managed that.” 

        “It was simple,” the prince answered, voice flat. “My sister had to be violated and murdered, my niece and nephew slaughtered. We had to turn our backs to our kin through marriage and ignore the thousands of Dornishmen killed after surrendering at the Trident.” He shrugged as if his words meant nothing, but his hands clenched on the arms of his chair as old, familiar rage fought his control. _Viserys and Daenerys,_ he thought. _If there are seven hells, I will find myself in one of them for what I did to you._ “Lord Arynn brought my sister’s bones home and brokered what he thought was peace, but Dorne does not forget, and we do not forgive.” 

        Olenna watched him, wariness entering her eyes for the first time. It was often that way. Oberyn was a rattlesnake, body coiled, loudly alerting everyone to the danger he posed. No one thought the viper was a distraction, not until they were felled by the bloodsnake waiting silently under the sand. 

        Doran sat straighter, pushing aside thoughts of his family and what the Iron Throne cost them. “Dorne has not been idle these past twenty years, hiding gold beneath the sands.” He could not help the smile that curled his features. “Ships Dorne has, enough to see most of the queen’s people to Westeros.” 

        “And I suppose Highgarden is meant to supply transport for those who are left?” 

        “The Tyrells and Martells supported the Targaryeans during the Usurper’s War.” Much of the colic had drained from the Tyrell woman as Varys spoke. 

        “And House Martell kept faith even after.” Faith from a distance. Spies to watch over the heirs to Aerys’ throne. To thwart assassination attempts and drop what funds they could into the children’s laps. “Make no mistake, my lady. Daenerys is coming to Westeros. Even if she did not have dragons, her army is formidable.” 

        “The Redwyne fleet is the largest merchant fleet in Westeros, some say the world,” Varys toyed with his glass of lemonsweet but did not drink. “I’m sure Queen Daenerys will be most grateful for the assistance of the Reach. You were her father’s strongest supporters, after all.” 

        Olenna sat back in her chair and looked from one man to the other. “You mean to allow her to use Dorne as a staging ground.” 

        “The Lannister army is all but spent. The Knights of the Vale ride for a Stark in the North. The Stormlands have barely enough men to man their keeps and bring in their harvests.” Doran smiled. “There are only two armies that still stand in Westeros.” 

        “Three,” Olenna corrected. “The Iron Born have elected a new king, it seems, and most of their men never left their ships. I’ve heard rumors that Yara Greyjoy ran from her uncle with half his fleet after he was given the Seastone Chair.” She cocked her head. 

        “The Reach still has seventy thousand levies, minus those that Cersei slaughtered after the sept. Dorne can raise twenty thousand spears.” 

        “Ninety thousand men, three dragons, and an armada filled with slaves, Dothraki, and killers,” Lady Tyrell’s eyes sparkled. “If she can keep them all together she will sweep Cersei aside.” 

        Varys smiled tightly. “She has managed so far.” 

        Olenna’s smile was just as tight. “With an uprising in the streets of Mereen and her ships burning at moor, it’s no surprise she wants to return to Westeros as quickly as possible. Fighting knights and soldiers on an open field must be easier than dealing with attacks within her own city walls.” 

        Varys’s expression didn’t waver. “There have been difficulties in Mereen, I will admit. A few will always fight change, especially when it means they will lose something. Power, privilege, money, all things used to control those beneath them. I imagine no Good Master of Mereen is happy to scrub their own floors or to pay servants they once simply ordered to do their bidding.” 

        “Slavery is a nasty business,” Olenna agreed. “An insurgency is worse. Who is to say the same won’t happen in King’s Landing or through the whole of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

        “We do,” Doran stated baldly. “There is no slavery is Westeros, no reason for the people to rebel. We both know the common folk care nothing for who sits the Iron Throne so long as they are protected and fed, two things Joffrey didn’t care about and Tommen wasn’t allowed time to remedy. Daenerys will be restoring order to the continent, and the people will love her for it.” 

        Olenna studied them both, and Doran held his breath. They needed House Tyrell. Needed their grain and stores, their army and their central position in the lower kingdoms. From the Reach, they could strike the Westerlands, King’s Landing, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands. Landing in Dorne would give Daenerys time to organize her army once it made landfall and a place to retreat if necessary, but the Reach would keep them fed. “We plan to meet her forces in the Step Stones and join them with our own. A message is waiting to be sent, Lady Olenna.” 

        After what seemed an age, the woman’s face broke into a smile. It was not pretty, for it spoke of dark, sharp things. “I don’t suppose the raven to Highgarden remembers the route?” 

        A tension that felt twenty years in the making eased from Doran’s shoulders. “I’m sure it does. Maester Caleotte is ever dutiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemonsweet is a drink rather like lemonade but infused with herbs. There is a wonderful strawberry lemonsweet recipe here:  
> http://www.innatthecrossroads.com/strawberry-lemonsweet/
> 
> I make mine with raw clover honey, mint, and a blood orange. Seriously, so good.


	8. In Which Cersei Learns All that Glitters is Not Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei Lannister is as cunning as a particularly dim fox. The one that knows there are snares in the forest, but thinks they are too clever to ever be caught in one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strictly Showverse for this chapter. Also, it has no continuity with my previous chapter _In which a Viper, a Spider, and a Rose Have a Chat_. Olenna is very much dead in this fic. That doesn't mean she's done being a magnificent bitch.

        Cersei’s hands tightened on the arms of her throne. Her spine felt made of brittle glass as the words of the Iron Bank’s representative circled her mind. She’d expected to see the man again, to discuss terms for another loan. When she was told the Silence docked at the royal port alongside a Braavosi slip, she carefully went over the options she and Qyburn spent the last fortnight discussing. Their major concern was the stores needed to survive the winter. In their current state, they could perhaps last three years, a relatively short winter. What she faced now made her stomach quail, though she refused to show it. “What do you mean, ‘not gold’?” 

        Her eyes went to Euron, and he gave a lazy shrug, unconcerned. The pirate had the nerve to look amused at the entire situation. “I first heard about it from the bank,” he said. “With what they told me, I thought it best to bring one of their own, to make sure Your Grace received the proper information.” His stance and voice were indolent, but his eyes were sharp when they rested on her, and Cersei felt her jaw tighten. 

        Tycho Nestoris blinked placidly next to the man, seemingly unaware. “When Your Grace brought her payment to Braavos, the Iron Bank was very pleased. Never has a client in such arrears paid their debt in such a prompt, complete manner.” His mouth hardened. “However, when you attempted to pay off the debt to our organization with such a large amount of gold it triggered certain protocols, designed to make sure the bank is protected. We have survived for centuries by being careful of our assets.” 

        “If you would be so kind as to get to the point.” The words were dragged from her throat, and she felt it close behind them. This couldn’t be happening. The gold was to pay off their debt, enable her to open a new line of credit and retain the Golden Company to secure her kingdom. All her careful planning, for nothing. 

        Nestoris nodded. He gestured to a man behind him, and he quickly unfolded a small table and placed a dark bowl on it. Next, he unslung a heavy bag and pulled out a glittering gold bar. 

        “If you would like to check, Your Grace, to ensure that this is indeed one of the bars you attempted to pay the Iron Bank with.” 

        Impatient, Cersei gestured to Ser Strong, and he approached and grasped the bar, taking it to her. The Highgarden rose was stamped into the metal. “It appears to be,” she said with a dismissive huff. “But that could have come from anywhere.” 

        “Not that we doubt the sincerity of the Iron Bank,” Qyburn interjected. “It is just we must be sure of its provenance. I’m certain a representative of the Iron Bank understands our concerns.” 

        The Braavosi was unfazed by her words and seemed to ignore her Hand’s smoothing. “Then perhaps Your Grace would like to provide me with a bar from your own treasury if you retained any.” 

        Cersei shifted on the throne. “Send for one of the serving maids to go to my quarters,” she said to Ser Lorce. “Have her fetch one of the bars there.” 

        The Queensguard bowed and trotted to the side exit. She almost smiled at his haste. Finally, the lesson that her orders were to be followed promptly had sunk into the man. Pity, it cost his sister her smallest finger. “My patience is not unlimited,” she warned. 

        “Your Grace asked how we were able to determine the truth of your payment. I am prepared to give a demonstration to allay any fears of impropriety on the part of the Iron Bank.” 

        They sat in silence as they waited. Three of the bars sat beneath the window in her rooms, where the weak winter sun could catch them. She spent many pleasant hours planning what she would make of them. Her favorite idea was to use them to cast Tyron’s head into a chamber pot so she could piss and shit on him every day for the rest of her life. Perhaps with the Tyrell Rose stamped into his wretched forehead. It was the only reason she prayed he would survive the North’s war with the dead. 

        _Or perhaps he’ll die and become one of those things._ Then she could torture him indefinitely. She imagined stripping pieces off his rotten corpse bit by bit, starting with that cock he was so proud of. _As if the cock of a dwarf could compare to that of a real man._

        Her musings could only distract her for so long. Cersei wondered whether she would have whichever handmaiden Ser Lorce found whipped or flayed if they were gone another minute when the door burst open and her serving woman hustled in, red-faced and carrying one of the bars, Ser Lorce behind her. 

        “My Queen,” the woman mumbled, holding out the heavy gold. 

        “Set it on the table,” Cersei ordered shortly. 

        The servant nodded and stumbled down the steps, setting the bar down and backing away. Cersei lifted her chin and the woman darted out of the throne room. 

        The banker pulled a small, glass vial from his vest and unstopped it before carefully pouring a line of liquid down the center of the bar. As she watched, the substance began to sizzle as a cloud of foul-smelling smoke rose. She sank back into the throne. Beside her, Qyburn stepped closer. “What is this?” 

        The banker didn’t flinch. “It is the method the Iron Bank uses to determine the purity of deposits, Your Grace. The liquid dissolves gold, among other things.” 

        “Fascinating,” Qyburn’s soft voice carried from his place beside her. “I’ve heard tales about the King’s Water, but even the Citadel does not know its secrets.” 

        “I fail to see what your unguents and foul-smelling smoke have to do with the Iron Throne,” the queen ground out from behind clenched teeth. As she spoke, the smoke tapered off, and the banker wiped at the bar with a heavy piece of material. He picked up the bar and turned it so she could see. There was a dark line down its center, the Tyrell rose defaced. 

        He held it out to her. “If you will, Your Grace?” 

        “Ser Lorce.” Cersei gestured for the Queensguard to take the bar and bring it to her. She examined it closely. She knew gold, had seen it in one form or another all her life. The metal was gold, but whatever liquid the banker applied looked to have eaten it away, revealing a ruddy material perhaps a finger’s width beneath. Her heart stuttered in her chest. 

        “It is bronze, Your Grace,” the banker said with false sadness. “Bronze bars dipped in gold. A good amount of gold, to be sure. Enough to pass a simple strike test, but as you can see, we use other, more reliable methods.” 

        She held on to her temper by the barest of margins. That bitch. That rose fucking, child-murdering bitch. She could almost hear Olenna Tyrell laughing at her from whatever hell she was in, no doubt gleeful at this last betrayal. Cersei breathed deeply and schooled her features to neutrality. She was a queen; it wouldn’t do for a foreign commoner to see her rant and rave like a child, no matter how much she wanted to take the offending object and throw it at the man’s head. “What does this mean for Our debt?” 

        “My colleagues and I are certain that such an august and noble queen as yourself would not attempt to perpetrate such a fraud and place the blame entirely on the gold’s source. We would have to determine the exact amount of gold used in each bar, but if they prove to be uniform, the crown has perhaps a third of the gold needed to cover the debt owed, Your Grace. We will, of course, also factor in the cost of the bronze, but it will be negligible, at best. The coins, at least, appear to be solid gold.” 

        And there were far too few of those. Most she kept as payment for her own soldiers and to purchase stores for a winter that was already upon them. “A third?” She stressed. 

        Nestoris gave a small nod. “Perhaps, Your Grace. The bulk of the shipment is in the hands of the Iron Bank. With your leave, we will begin the process of determining the exact amount of gold, and how much of the crown’s debt it can cover.” 

        Cersei straightened her spine. “We thank you for bringing this to Our attention.” The words felt like sharpened steel in her throat. “Rest assured, the remainder of the throne’s debt will be addressed. When do you plan to return to Braavos?” 

        Tycho lifted a hand, and his assistant hastily folded the table away. “I planned to leave on the evening tide, Your Grace. With winter setting in, travel between the Seven Kingdoms and Braavos grows more treacherous. We would like to see the matter resolved as quickly as possible.” 

        Cersei felt a pain in her palm and focused on unclenching her fist. “Then please, enjoy Our hospitality until your departure.” 

        Nestoris bowed and exited the throne room, his lackey at his heels. Cersei waited until the heavy doors closed behind him to stand, grab the bar from Ser Lorce, and hurl it into the middle of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olenna trolling from beyond the grave. I don't think this will actually happen in the series, but it totally should. Why would Olenna leave the bulk of her family's wealth in a place that even she knows is readily accessible to anyone with a large enough army? I mean, Highgarden fell to a force of about 10,000 (don't even get me started on how completely unfeasible that is. Castles are meant to withstand sieges unless someone straight up opens the gates). She would have to know that, with Margaery out of the way, a newly crowned queen to a kingdom embroiled in a years' long war and dangerously in debt to the Iron Bank was coming for her cheddar, and Olenna never struck me as someone who would just let that happen. She's also delightfully petty enough to let Cersei think she'd won, only to get bit on the ass. _Plus_ if Cersei thought she had Highgarden's gold, she wouldn't be looking for it anywhere else, like being floated down the Mander and discretely deposited at Dragonstone, which at least in the show appears to be completely abandoned, if she didn't just send it all to the Iron Bank to be held in trust until a representative could retrieve it.
> 
> PS. Dwarfism affects the bones and connective tissue of an individual, so soft tissue can be largely unaffected. So Tyrion could be hung like a horse, even though he is a dwarf. Maybe Cersei's been banging the wrong brother all these years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ^_^


End file.
